Finding My Sicilian Roots

A year ago this week, my family and I embarked on what was for me a trip I had waited my whole life to take. We went to Sicily, the birthplace of Emanuele LoPorto, my paternal grandfather.

About a month before we left, I contacted the Church of San Francesco de Paola, the older of the two churches that I found listed for Scoglitti, the small seaside village where my grandfather was born in 1912 and left when he was just a year old with his mother Francesca and her 13-year-old sister Rosaria “Sadie” Domicolo. I could not find any website or email address for the church so I mailed a letter. Lo and behold, less than two weeks later I received an email from Padre Roberto of Santa Maria di Portosalvo (the newer church) along with a copy of my grandfather’s baptismal certificate. It was all in Latin and the name of his godfather was Joannes Baptista, which translates to John the Baptist but of course he was not the John the Baptist. I was so excited that I immediately emailed the certificate to my brother Frankie and sister Cristina.

A week before leaving, I found a private Facebook page entitled Scoglitti Nel Cuore Per Sempre (Scoglitti Forever in the Heart). I applied for membership, was quickly approved, and posted a question: “Did Santa Maria di Portosalvo replace the older San Francesco de Paola Church, and does anyone know of someone with the surname LoPorto or Domicolo?” I got a flurry of responses. Someone confirmed that indeed the newer church replaced the older, much smaller church in 1937. Another person commented that there was a lady who lived next to the tobacco shop who was a LoPorto through marriage. And then I received a reply from a woman named Marisa Pitino, who began her comment with “Cara” (“Dear”) and ended it with “I hug you.” By the time I finished reading what she wrote, I was practically crying. Many of the names she mentioned were names I recognized, including my great-grandfather Francesco, his brother Nunzio (Aunt Sadie’s husband), and, most notably, my grandfather, who had visited in 1980. Marisa also spoke about her Zia Annette, a second mother to her.

A couple of weeks before we left, my Aunt Debbie gave me a prayer card for a woman named Anna LoPorto who had passed away in 1979; it included a photo. I messaged Marisa the photo and asked her if this was her aunt, since Annette means “little Anna,” and she replied “Yes!” I could not believe it. When my father was in the army in the 1950s, he also visited Scoglitti. He used to tell us how he was met at the bus depot by his Zia Annette, who welcomed him with hugs and kisses all the while exclaiming, “Sangue del mio sangue” (“Blood of my blood”). She then brought him home and sent for the barber to shave him. He was a private serving during peacetime but he was treated like a war hero. I sent Marisa another message asking if she might remember my father when he visited around 1957. She didn't answer right away but at midnight, which is 6:00 am in Italy, probably as soon as she woke up, Marisa replied that she indeed remembered him. She was nine and her sister Giovanna was 11, and they followed their “beautiful” cousin Franco, my father, everywhere. She remembered. I was completely choked up. I had not only found a cousin on the other side after all these years, but one who remembered my father and grandfather, both gone for decades. Unfortunately, Marisa and Giovanna both now live in Torino, all the way up north so I would not be able to meet them when we arrived in Sicily. But Marisa gave me the street address where the family used to live in Scoglitti, 93 Via Napoli.

We had tentatively planned on going to Sicily in 2019 but the timing wasn’t right. Then COVID-19 struck which further delayed plans. Five years later, I was more than ready to make this trip a reality. My husband, my older son Matthew and his partner John, my younger son Gabriel, and I landed in Catania on June 29th. On the bus from the plane to the terminal, I looked up at Gabe and said half jokingly/half seriously, “This is the land of my people.” Although I’m only one-quarter Sicilian, I could feel it in my bones. John and I got some espresso and rice balls while Mike and Gabe went to get the rental car and Matt minded the bags. And then we were on our way, with Mount Etna slightly smoking in the distance and lots of garbage bags oddly strewn on the side of the road right outside the airport. That espresso must have put me on some kind of caffeine high because as soon as we got into the countryside, I was completely enthralled by the olive groves, farmhouses, cactus flowers, and terraced fields. I could not stop ooh-ing and ahh-ing. We had a semi-rocky ride to Licata, where we rented a beautiful house owned by the gracious Giuseppe and Paola Bonelli, who left us a generous welcome basket filled with coffee, bread, jam, fantastic cookies, and wine. On our first night we ate a memorable meal prepared by the master, Peppe Bonsignore and hosted by his lovely wife Chiara at L’Oste e il Sacrestano. We also got to meet their sweet daughter Ginevra. I knew I was going to enjoy the meal when I realized that I was sitting beneath a portrait of President Obama.

The next day, Mike, Gabe, and I discovered the most amazing breakfast at a little nondescript bar: cappuccino with brioche con granita, a sweet bun stuffed with lemon ice. I cannot express how delicious it was. We had a variation of it every single day, sometimes with gelato instead of granita. Afterwards, we went grocery shopping and found that the prices in Sicily were great, so much more affordable than in Brooklyn. We bought mozzarella, mortadella, capocollo, prosciutto, olives, apricots, bread, and zucchini, which made for a hearty lunch when we got back to the house. Later that day, Mike and I tried to go to Mass at one of the many churches in Licata, but unfortunately, even with GPS, we got stuck on an unbelievably narrow street, between a dead end on one side and an outdoor staircase on the other, with a lazy cat sitting in the middle of road. A kind, agitated, and completely shirtless local man helped to guide us out but, sure enough, we dinged the car.

Walter Curella, a friend from Sacred Hearts-St. Stephen’s Church, was born and raised in Licata. We told him about our trip and he put us in touch with his friend Vincenzo Lombardi, who agreed to drive us on day trips. That was a very wise decision. Bright and early on Monday morning, Vincenzo arrived to take us to Scoglitti. It was about an hour and 20 minutes from Licata. All the way there, I kept wondering how my great-grandmother and Aunt Sadie—along with my grandfather, who was just a little baby—could have possibly gotten all the way from Scoglitti, way down on the southwest coast, to Palermo, gotten on a boat, and traveled across the Atlantic? I cannot imagine their bravery and fortitude. They settled in Red Hook, with each sister eventually raising a family of seven children, all living in the same little house on Union Street below Van Brunt Street, and spent the rest of their lives in South Brooklyn.

When we arrived in Scoglitti, we parked along the square, just in front of Santa Maria di Portosalvo, and the church bells were ringing. We all walked in, right down the center aisle. There was a lady standing in the front and she took one look at me and asked, “LoPorto?” I thought I was going to fall on the floor! How did she know my name? She quickly went into the back and came out with a large envelope with my name on it. I had forgotten that I had written to the priest that we would be traveling to Sicily in late June. I had not given an exact date so this wonderful woman, Maria Castania, had been given the task of keeping an eye out for me. In the envelope was a printed copy of the aforementioned baptismal certificate. She pointed out the original baptismal font where my grandfather had been baptized and then she brought out Padre Roberto, who blessed us all in front of the altar. Needless to say, there were more tears. Then Maria kindly brought us to the original church of San Francesco around the corner and to visit the lady named LoPorto next to the tobacco shop. Despite not knowing who we were nor that we were coming, Signora LoPorto and her son Andrea were very kind; I’m sure her husband was a distant cousin.

The last thing I needed to do in Scoglitti was visit 93 Via Napoli. Alas, the address was not there anymore; perhaps two houses had been combined into one. As I took a picture of the street, Vincenzo walked over to a man standing a few feet away and asked him if he remembered the people who had lived there. Incredibly, this man replied, “Sì, mia zia Annette!” The same woman on the prayer card was his aunt! As soon as I saw this man, I felt an instant kinship. His face, his build, and his arms all reminded me of my grandfather. I showed him pictures of the prayer card and of my grandfather and my father. He teared up a bit and replied, “Mi ricordo” (“I remember”). This man, Salvatore Penna, was a real cousin! All of us standing there could not believe our good fortune. He told me the names of his family and, of course, these names have also traveled the Atlantic since everyone is named after the same ancestors. Before we said our goodbyes, Salvatore said “I hug you dutifully,” and kissed me on both cheeks. Truthfully, meeting him was one of the most astounding, serendipitous things that has ever happened to me.

When we got back to the house in Licata later that day, I called my brother and sister and texted all my cousins back home. I sent them pictures and videos of our newfound cousin Salvatore and the church of our ancestors. I wanted so badly to share the day with them.

The rest of our time in Sicily was just glorious. There were day trips to Palermo, Ragusa, Siracusa, and Noto and the most delicious meals, including a seafood fritto misto that we ate standing up outside the market in Ortigia. We had pasta every day, brought sandwiches to the beach, had panelle, cassatina, cannoli, and plenty of gelato; tried some arancini made with pasta instead of rice; stopped at Pasticceria Russello in Licata where we bought beautifully wrapped trays of cookies to bring home; shopped for ceramics; visited the relics of St. Lucy; and took an evening passeggiata (stroll) in Catania on streets covered in ash from Etna.

I have found my roots. I have visited the birthplace of my beloved Nonny. I am now in touch with two lovely ladies, my cousins Marisa and Giovanna. I have met a real-life cousin, Salvatore, thanks to our hero Vincenzo. I have experienced the exceptional warmth of the people of Sicily and I did it with the people who mean the most to me in the world.

After we had been home for about a month, Gabe asked me if I was still thinking about Sicily. I told him I could not stop thinking about it and that is still the case, one year later. As we were leaving the house in Licata, Paola called out, “A presto” (“See you soon”)! I can only hope that my return to Sicily will not take another 64 years. But for now, it is a dream come true, an experience that I will cherish forever.